


There's a little fury on me and I'm ok

by 35391291



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9556712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: This is how men like them fight. With their whole bodies and, sometimes, with a bit of their hearts.Addiction isn't good or bad. It's real.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "The denver grab", by [The denver gentlemen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kZSMsqGf4g) / [16 horsepower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJ6PwLGwS5U).

Sunset starts a slow fire, and time stops to huddle around it. Night falls into the shadows, its threats getting closer step by step. Blood rushes into his heart and eyes. Once again, he is fighting. But he has lost this battle many times already, and he is too tired. So tonight, he sits here in this little room, cradling his pain and drowning it in whiskey. He is waiting for something that never comes, and yet, that comes too soon.

He is trying to run away from these nightmares, to drown out their sound. The whole world is red and bitter and blue, and he wishes for it to slow down, for its black, terrible song to stop, even if only for a moment. There might not be enough opium or whiskey in the world for that, but what else is there for him to try?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not here, at least. Not yet. This is just a small god-forgotten town, just a job. And yet, death is everywhere. He can't outrun it anymore. It is unavoidable, just like the morning that will be here soon, before they know it. It's painfully real, and it tears out whatever is left of his heart. There is no cure for that.

In this battlefield, there are many weapons to choose from, but he sticks to his usual ones. The bittersweet blessing of opium touches him, a little like a punch, a little like a kiss. The world stops for a while, but in the end, the smoke is just smoke. And the whiskey burns his throat, but it can't burn out his thoughts, not tonight. He gives up, turns his gun around in his hands, over and over. He closes his eyes, because there is nothing to look at. There is nothing left inside of him. No anger, no spark, no fire. Only that sound. And the shots, the blood, the dirt. And the owls.

"Give me that" Billy takes the gun away from him, puts it out of sight. Billy knows. This is not the first time he has come so close to drowning, and it won't be the last. He opens his eyes, and the room is dark, except for the little pieces of moonlight caught in Billy's knives. He wishes they could be enough to push away the night. But it can't be helped. His watch ticks next to his chest, as if it could replace his heart, and he knows it's too late.

"It's no use, Billy, I tell you. I keep hearing that sound. It's getting closer."

Billy sighs and sits down next to him, close enough so he can rub his back slowly, and breathe in the smoke and the fear that cling to him. "It's just a dream, Goody. There's nothing there." He sounds tired but still, he has to say it. "Maybe go easy on the opium tonight?"

"It's too late for that." He laughs, but it's not funny, not at all. He is out of tricks, out of poetry, out of words. He needs to feel something other than this loneliness. Even if it tastes fake, like delirium, he'll take it. Anything to remind himself that he is still here, that he still exists in this world. For however long it might last.

"OK then, maybe something else to take your mind off it?" Billy looks at him in his sharp, unerring way. He knows that this is how men like them fight. With their whole bodies and, sometimes, with a bit of their hearts. Flesh is their weapon and their wound. It is a sign of life and the will to keep going. It is raw desire and thirst, and it will do for tonight.

"Billy," he says softly, almost defeated, both warning him and daring him to go on. Perhaps, even begging. But there is no shame in wanting to feel something else, something good. If it means finding himself deep within someone who is just as lost as he is, then so be it. Even if it lasts for a moment, it should count for something.

It might be stupid of him, to try and fight against the pulse of death, to want to sink and never come back to the surface. But it's not wrong. For their kind, this is the way of the world, and all they have is the right to hold on to something. Billy knows this too. When their mouths meet, the rush of desire is predictable, long overdue. It feels rough, wild and desperate. It hurts, but being without it hurts even more. This is what addiction tastes like. It's something he knows by heart. And it may only be a whiskey and opium dream, but for a moment everything feels warm and quiet, and he is safe. He can breathe. He still hears a sound, but this time it is Billy's heartbeat. Nothing more, nothing less.

This is still the way of the world. But maybe now is the right time to stop believing in it, and believe in something else instead. Something defined by stubborn pride. Something flawed, but very much real. Somewhere in this sea of despair, love has other weapons. It's just as well, because there is one more battle left. But now he has something to fight with, something to fight for. His steps may falter, but this has always been his fate. To stand, to fall, to burn. And then, maybe, to brush off the ashes and stand again.

There is a hesitant light out there. The morning lingers and hurts, but it starts eventually. Nothing more, but nothing less, either. There might be something left, after all. A little anger, a little spark, a little fire. It feels almost like a promise. He is still here. Billy is, too. And that will have to be enough for now.


End file.
